1. The Reluctant Stag
finally held his own.
For most of Saturday Lettsy drunk beer and downed shots with all the acceptance of somebody held captive against his will. Seemingly ignorant to what might be expected of him having organised a stag do with 26 of Bath’s finest drinkers. And Gunning. Indeed, the first drink I saw him bolt contained the conversation:
“I can’t down that, I don’t have to down that”
“Lettsy, it’s fucking Irn-Bru”
Possibly rejuvenated by Arthur’s Seat and a full three hours of non-drinking, Lettsy emerged for the rest of the weekend in fine fettle. Holding his own and staying on his feet despite truly epic amounts of spirits being poured down his throat. His use of the tactical chunder was key to his success in lasting both days until past midnight. He grew into the centre of attention role that he seemed initially unable to fill and by the end of the weekend had survived despite the best efforts of Fish, Large and “Sambuca Roulette”. That said, despite his achievements on the alcohol front, his complete inability to keep his cock from view whilst wearing a short dress was a real low point. Witnessing one of my oldest friends “swinging loose,” whilst gyrating a pole on a cranked up “fun bus” is an image that will be seared into my retinas forever. And frankly a sentence that I never wanted to write…
For most of Saturday Lettsy drunk beer and downed shots with all the acceptance of somebody held captive against his will. Seemingly ignorant to what might be expected of him having organised a stag do with 26 of Bath’s finest drinkers. And Gunning. Indeed, the first drink I saw him bolt contained the conversation:
“I can’t down that, I don’t have to down that”
“Lettsy, it’s fucking Irn-Bru”
Possibly rejuvenated by Arthur’s Seat and a full three hours of non-drinking, Lettsy emerged for the rest of the weekend in fine fettle. Holding his own and staying on his feet despite truly epic amounts of spirits being poured down his throat. His use of the tactical chunder was key to his success in lasting both days until past midnight. He grew into the centre of attention role that he seemed initially unable to fill and by the end of the weekend had survived despite the best efforts of Fish, Large and “Sambuca Roulette”. That said, despite his achievements on the alcohol front, his complete inability to keep his cock from view whilst wearing a short dress was a real low point. Witnessing one of my oldest friends “swinging loose,” whilst gyrating a pole on a cranked up “fun bus” is an image that will be seared into my retinas forever. And frankly a sentence that I never wanted to write…
2. Bester and Baxter.
The double act the Chuckle Brothers wishes
they were.
Gunning’s boyfriend aside, the only two people I’d not met prior to the Stag Do were the comedy double act of Brendon Bester and his official translator, Lewis Baxter. Owing to my arrival time and their strange decision to go on a cultural man date (with wine) as opposed to Go-Karting, I failed to witness either party in a state even approaching sobriety. Impossibly leery, their commitment to drinking, abusing and just yelling “fuck off” really loudly was both amusing and impressive. However, it was during drinking games that the couple really shone. Not wanting to be outdone by Baxter’s bid to be the worst “one duck” player of all time, Bester came into his own during several woeful attempts to play categories. Aside from getting almost every answer wrong and drinking 4 shots of Sambuca on his own Saturday night, his ability was best witnessed in the inexplicable decision to choose “deserts of the world” not once, but twice… despite only being able to name four. As it was, I escorted Baxter home Saturday night listening to his speech about never, ever being able to pull a girl with the questionable tactic of never, ever speaking to one. I’m pretty sure Bester went home in an ambulance.
Gunning’s boyfriend aside, the only two people I’d not met prior to the Stag Do were the comedy double act of Brendon Bester and his official translator, Lewis Baxter. Owing to my arrival time and their strange decision to go on a cultural man date (with wine) as opposed to Go-Karting, I failed to witness either party in a state even approaching sobriety. Impossibly leery, their commitment to drinking, abusing and just yelling “fuck off” really loudly was both amusing and impressive. However, it was during drinking games that the couple really shone. Not wanting to be outdone by Baxter’s bid to be the worst “one duck” player of all time, Bester came into his own during several woeful attempts to play categories. Aside from getting almost every answer wrong and drinking 4 shots of Sambuca on his own Saturday night, his ability was best witnessed in the inexplicable decision to choose “deserts of the world” not once, but twice… despite only being able to name four. As it was, I escorted Baxter home Saturday night listening to his speech about never, ever being able to pull a girl with the questionable tactic of never, ever speaking to one. I’m pretty sure Bester went home in an ambulance.
3. Nobody nurses a
pint like James Norris.
Firstly, it should be pointed out that my accusation against Norris was made solely in comparison to Large. As it was, questioning a man’s drinking ability on his 23rd consecutive pint of Guinness was at best, average and at worst downright stupid. There were several huge efforts on the alcohol front this weekend, not least by our Stag, but for sheer, relentless momentum it’s hard to look anywhere but the direction of Jimmer. 24 pints on Friday were followed up by over 15 more on the Saturday. Norris isn’t a flash drinker, there’s no mix or matching going on, no downing shots one minute, necking a pint the next. He just orders a Guinness, drinks it… and 20 minutes later does it again. He appeared sober on Friday night when he escorted me back to my hotel room at 3am. The man consumed over 8,000 calories and 100 units of alcohol within a 40 hour period and was drinking again the next evening to “relax.” The man is a fucking machine. Respect him. Fear him. Just don’t question him.
Firstly, it should be pointed out that my accusation against Norris was made solely in comparison to Large. As it was, questioning a man’s drinking ability on his 23rd consecutive pint of Guinness was at best, average and at worst downright stupid. There were several huge efforts on the alcohol front this weekend, not least by our Stag, but for sheer, relentless momentum it’s hard to look anywhere but the direction of Jimmer. 24 pints on Friday were followed up by over 15 more on the Saturday. Norris isn’t a flash drinker, there’s no mix or matching going on, no downing shots one minute, necking a pint the next. He just orders a Guinness, drinks it… and 20 minutes later does it again. He appeared sober on Friday night when he escorted me back to my hotel room at 3am. The man consumed over 8,000 calories and 100 units of alcohol within a 40 hour period and was drinking again the next evening to “relax.” The man is a fucking machine. Respect him. Fear him. Just don’t question him.
4. Kilby Junior was
King of the Track.
A hugely successful Go-Karting trip saw the young Kilby lad take centre stage in a racing performance full of verve, ability and style. It needed something to pick the visibly jaded troops up come Saturday morning and the beyond surreal “fun bus” did just that. The moment when it came round the bend, pumping Disco bass, with Fish wondering whether we were travelling in the luxury coach across the way summed up better than any words ever could about the organisation of the best man. Once locked and loaded trackside though, the Karting soon separated the men from the Rob Wilsons. A titanic three way shootout between Peters, Bence and Large saw the former snare the silver medal behind the runaway leader. At the other end, a late recovery from Norris saw him climb away from danger whilst Nick “animal” Harris took matters into his own hands by shamelessly ramming first Gunning than myself off the track to ensure he didn’t finish bottom of the pile. Copious warnings should have ensued, but a quick word in the ear of the Steward about the legality of his health and safety disclaimer meant otherwise. Disgraceful. But that’s Londoners for you.
A hugely successful Go-Karting trip saw the young Kilby lad take centre stage in a racing performance full of verve, ability and style. It needed something to pick the visibly jaded troops up come Saturday morning and the beyond surreal “fun bus” did just that. The moment when it came round the bend, pumping Disco bass, with Fish wondering whether we were travelling in the luxury coach across the way summed up better than any words ever could about the organisation of the best man. Once locked and loaded trackside though, the Karting soon separated the men from the Rob Wilsons. A titanic three way shootout between Peters, Bence and Large saw the former snare the silver medal behind the runaway leader. At the other end, a late recovery from Norris saw him climb away from danger whilst Nick “animal” Harris took matters into his own hands by shamelessly ramming first Gunning than myself off the track to ensure he didn’t finish bottom of the pile. Copious warnings should have ensued, but a quick word in the ear of the Steward about the legality of his health and safety disclaimer meant otherwise. Disgraceful. But that’s Londoners for you.
5. Same banter,
different city.
In all, it was great to see so many old faces (literally) together again doing what they know best… trying to fuck up Matthew Letts. From Homer having his own private “questionable shirt off” with Grats, to Coxy and Bradders staggering around like it was 1999… all the way through to Sherring offending Barmaids to Splatty wearing what I’m pretty sure was the same rugby shirt from when I first met him. When I was 17. Jockey, Marshall, Godman, Motty, Bailey, Peters, College (apparently)… too much banter to be contained in 5 easy to digest moderately amusing paragraphs. Great to see the full family Letts there as well, watching on in glee/fear as their brother/son faced his inevitable destruction. The largest Stag Do I’ve attended was easily one of the most entertaining, enjoyable and amusing. And despite the terrible or invisible food, despite the fun bus, despite that dress and despite only 11 people actually managing to climb Arthur’s seat (in flip flops) and sip fine Whisky upon its summit… I suppose you have to give Frank Curran some credit for it. Good job Fish… see you all again for Stag Do a la Bence in 2031.
In all, it was great to see so many old faces (literally) together again doing what they know best… trying to fuck up Matthew Letts. From Homer having his own private “questionable shirt off” with Grats, to Coxy and Bradders staggering around like it was 1999… all the way through to Sherring offending Barmaids to Splatty wearing what I’m pretty sure was the same rugby shirt from when I first met him. When I was 17. Jockey, Marshall, Godman, Motty, Bailey, Peters, College (apparently)… too much banter to be contained in 5 easy to digest moderately amusing paragraphs. Great to see the full family Letts there as well, watching on in glee/fear as their brother/son faced his inevitable destruction. The largest Stag Do I’ve attended was easily one of the most entertaining, enjoyable and amusing. And despite the terrible or invisible food, despite the fun bus, despite that dress and despite only 11 people actually managing to climb Arthur’s seat (in flip flops) and sip fine Whisky upon its summit… I suppose you have to give Frank Curran some credit for it. Good job Fish… see you all again for Stag Do a la Bence in 2031.
With a travel pussy.
